


Offseason

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Baseball, Detroit Tigers, Gen, Male Friendship, Rambly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-02
Updated: 2009-02-02
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Joel's lurching unsteadily into the offseason along with the fans, nails bitten down to the quick out of nerves.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offseason

**Author's Note:**

> Another repost.
> 
> Just a short little thing to break through my writer's block.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

He hasn't thrown a baseball since August, hasn't even picked one up since _September_ (writers go through writer's block, he wonders if he could call this little drought of his pitcher's block). It's November now, just a handful of days (little more than a week!) away from his birthday, and the season is officially over now that the World Series has wrapped up. 

Joel's lurching unsteadily into the offseason along with the fans, nails bitten down to the quick out of nerves. There are so many questions about the team that need answers: _Will Maggs still be a Tiger in February? Will Justin figure his shit out? Will the team go after Frankie Rodriguez? Most importantly, will Zoom ever be healthy? Anyone wanna take bets on when Zoom will stick his finger in an electrical socket? When he gets his dick caught in his zipper? When he goes on the DL for giving himself a concussion playing Nintendo Wii? When some asshole college fratboy starts the Joel Zumaya Stupid Injury Drinking Game?_

He's got four months to go, four months 'til pitchers and catchers report, and he can finally prove to the team and the fans that he's all healed up. And then he'll have to prove that he can _stay_ healthy, and that's something he's never really been able to do since he sloughed off the minor leagues for the Show.

He doesn't keep in contact with most of the guys once the season's over, Granderson being pretty much the lone exception (but he doesn't even really count 'cause he's off traveling the world most times, high-rollin' jet-setter and all). Mostly because they've all got their other lives, their offseason lives to tend to. Wives, kids, carpooling, kindergarten Halloween parades, Christmas plans, that kind of stuff, quality time with the little lady, the kind of stuff that doesn't call for the involvement of teammates. 

Joel has a wife too, like pretty much everybody else on the team, but him and Rachel are young and still pretty much in the honeymoon phase. They haven't got sick and tired of each other yet, still exploring the space their bodies fill in.

They're both loud, take up a lot of space together, even though Rachel's a good head shorter than him and at least a hundred pounds lighter. Joel's pretty sure he's the luckiest sonofabitch out there to find a girl like Rachel who fits with him so completely. 'Least with her around, the offseason can't gnaw away at his brain too bad, drive him 'round the bend.

***

He calls Verlander up in November. They don't talk that much during the offseason; Verlander's got a girl of his own that takes up all his time, and besides, it's not like they're the best of friends. They don't go out of their way to seek each other's company when they don't have to.

Verlander sounds surprised to hear from Joel this early into the offseason. "Hey man, what's up?" Joel can hear the clanking of pans in the background.

"Nothin' much, my man. What're _you_ up to?" Joel asks.

"Just whippin' up somethin' for dinner," Justin says. Something clatters against Formica, loud and metallic. "Whups. Really shouldn't be gettin' pots and pans outta the pantry when I'm on the phone. Anyways. What can I do for ya?"

"You in Lakeland?" Joel asks.

"Yeah."

"So'm I. You wanna have a little throwin' session together?"

Justin clucks his tongue. "You sure you should be throwin'? Didn't the doctors tell you - "

Joel cuts him off. "The doctors'll never haveta know!"

"Jeez, man. Wouldn't wanna be responsible for another Joel Zumaya injury." Justin laughs a little, and Joel imagines he's smirking right now.

"I'd be real careful," Joel insists. "C'mon, Justin. I'm goin' crazy here."

"Your girl know you're in Lakeland?" Justin asks.

"Yeah," Joel lies. "It was her idea."

"Well. I guess, if you insist," Justin says, wavering. "We'll just haveta be real careful, all right?"

"Got it," Joel says, nearly bursting at the seams. "You doin' anything tonight?"

Justin snuffs noncommittally. "Nah, not really."

"Then I'll be over in twenty minutes," Joel flips his cell phone closed and hurries off to get his gear.

***

They find a small patch of dirt and grass that was probably a Little League park in its heyday. Now, it just looks like a baseball graveyard.

Justin drops his duffel bag of gear by a rusted chainlink fence and leans back against it. Joel rattles it and Justin turns to shoot him daggers.

" 's real pretty, isn't it?" Joel asks, nodding to the field.

Justin looks over his shoulder, shrugs. " 's kinda ugly, but whatever you say."

"No, I mean. 's baseball, man." Joel hops over the fence and drops down next to Justin's bag.

Justin stoops down and opens his bag, pulling out a glove and ball. "You know how much trouble I got into 'cause of you?" he asks, fitting the glove on over his hand.

"You'll make it up to her," Joel says.

"She was pissed, man. She's probably gonna withhold sex or somethin'." Justin's face twists in a comical expression of pain. "The things I do for you."

Joel slips on his own glove. "It's 'cause I'm such an awesome guy, right?" He grins at Justin, baring his teeth.

"Yeah, whatever, Zoomy." Justin thwaps him in the head with his glove, lightly. " 's long as you believe that."

***

Justin digs a toe into the dirt of their makeshift mound and draws his glove up to his face. Tall streetlights cast down their light, steeping everything in charcoal and gray.

Joel, where home plate would be, can see Justin flapping his glove as he fits his fingers into the grip he's looking for. Justin surges forward, arm slinging, and the ball floats out of his hand all right and pretty.

Joel clocks the spin, slows it down in his mind, and swings at it. The ball grazes off the end of his bat and spits up the dirt as it skids in the infield. _Weak grounder to short_ , Mario Impemba's voice says in his mind.

Justin steps off the mound and picks the ball up. "You wanna try that again? Or is it your turn to pitch?" He flips the ball in his hand.

"I think it's my turn," Joel says, dropping the bat.

When he closes his hand around the baseball, feels the stitches under his fingers, adrenaline surges through him and he can hear the buzz of fans, the murmur of his teammates in the dugout, the vendors selling their wares. 

Joel takes the ball and steps onto the mound.

The batter steps into the box and digs a toe in the dirt. He turns his head and spits out a wad of chew, tightens his grip around the bat. Joel can hear his leather batting gloves creak. 

Every sense is heightened. His nerves are all tingling, and he feels, in this moment, completely invincible.

Joel fires for home, feels the ball rolling off his fingertips, sees it, hard, straight as an arrow, heading right down the middle of the strikezone.

Forty thousand fans hold their breaths.

The batter pivots and swings.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
